Loss
by mr619
Summary: Johanna Mason, following the events of the 75th Annual Hunger Games, reflects back on her life while awaiting her fate.
1. Chapter 1

The sedative wore off gradually. Her eyes had drooped open slowly at first, so that the unfocused, white blurriness dominated her vision. Gradually, as if someone was drawing them in, lines formed around the edges of the blurs, creating shapes. Tiles. White tiles lined the ceiling. And light, fluorescent and harsh, reflected off the shiny surfaces.

Her sense of touch too, had been weak at first. She had a sense of permanence, but also of dissociation. It felt like floating almost, or like a dream. She was there, but she was also somewhere else. Nestled away in her own mind, watching her life unfolding from afar.

The screams finally brought her back to consciousness.

Throaty, full bodied screams originating somewhere to her right. Starting low at first, then building to an impossibly high crescendo. She could feel them reaching out to her, pulling her from the safe recesses of her mind.

Suddenly, she was aware of the dryness in her throat, the painful clamps holding down her feet and ankles and the tightness filling her chest. Fear had heightened every numbed sense.

How had she gotten here? Her mind was a jumble of sounds, images and words. She tried to order them in a way that made sense, but the flow was too quick for her to control. A high, blood curdling scream distracted her. It was a male voice, she realized. She knew him, she realized, but who was he? Who was she?

Her stomach rumbled under her thin, white gown. Hunger, a familiar sensation.

A vision flashed before her. A small, dark haired girl sat in front of a table. A taller boy and smaller girl, both dark haired, sat across from the little girl. An older man and a woman sat at either end.

The little girl's stomach rumbled. She looked down at the empty plate in front of her. A sticky residue was all that remained of her dinner.

"Isn't there anymore?" she asked, gesturing at the bowl in the center of the table.

"Now, Johanna," the woman said, "you know that we need the rest for tomorrow."

_Johanna_. Her name was Johanna. She was the little girl. And this, this was her family.

"Can't you speak to the Peacekeepers again, mother?" asked her brother.

Her parents exchanged furtive glances across the table.

"That won't be necessary, Jem," her father said from across the table. He was a tall man, lean and muscular from his work in lumber yards. He had thick, dark hair that grew like weeds and constantly fell over his wide, dark eyes. Her mother had to cut it constantly. Johanna remembered watching her father out back, sitting very stiffly in an old lawn chair while her mother snipped away his hair. Occasionally, she would pull a piece of sawdust out of his wavy locks and they would both laugh, looking younger and more beautiful than Johanna ever remembered them being.

"Your father's right," her mother said, tucking a dark curl behind her ear, "we're luckier than most. We should be grateful for everything we have."

Jem snorted. "Luckier than what? 11? 12? I can't even remember what it feels like to not be hungry."

Her father leaned across the table, his eyes locked on Jem. "And it's a good thing that you don't. When you have something and then it's gone, that's when you really miss it; that's when it's really painful."

Another scream filled her ears, ripping her back into the present.


	2. Chapter 2

The screams slowly diminished from a booming crescendo to a whimpering finale. Johanna's body tensed, not knowing if it was over, or merely entering a second act. But then, sometime later, she heard the swish of an opening door and the patter of exiting feet. Her breath quickened, listening to the direction of the strangers in the hall. However, the sound of the retreating footsteps petered off in a similar manner to the screams, until there was nothing but silence remaining.

Whatever pain her neighbor was in, it must have finally rendered him unconscious. Quietly, she reasoned that the alternative would have led to a louder, more chaotic aftermath. The clicking heels of a medic, the creaking wheels of a stretcher, and the hushed whispers of Peacekeepers. However, it had not ended in such a dramatic fashion. Which led her to conclude that this was not the ending, but merely the intermission.

Johanna had learned very early on that the smartest bet in any situation was always that it would somehow get worse. _Be on guard, _she told herself, _be on guard at all times._

….

Jem turned 12 years old shortly after the conclusion of the 64th Hunger Games. True to his threats, he immediately took out enough tesserae for each member of his family. Johanna and her sister, Jess, squealed with joy when they saw the extra grain sitting on the kitchen table. Her mother's face paled considerably as she sat in her chair, looking down at the floor. Her father reddened and slammed his fists on the table. "And what will you do, boy?" he screamed, "What will you do if they pick you?"

Jem straightened and looked his father in the eye, "I'll train. I've got almost a year."

Johanna looked at her brother, scrawny and small yet full of bravado, and immediately admired him. Curiously, she followed him outside later that day, watching as he walked along the edge of the forest with a group of other boys. They finally stopped walking when they'd reached an abandoned spot north of the lumber yards. Once, long ago, it had been the site of a factory. But now it was a junkyard. The Capitol shuffled in equipment once every few years, mostly to improve the lumber trade. Since the Capitol did not want to shoulder the costs of moving the older equipment, which was often on its last legs anyway, it was moved to the junkyard. The more technically savvy townspeople occasionally scoured the junk yard at night, poaching any valuable parts they could find. However, most of the time, the junkyard remained empty, a neglected window to the past.

Whatever the boys planned to do, they didn't want an audience. Curious, Johanna followed them, hiding behind a tall tractor. Peering out from under the rusting tires, she saw the boys form a circle in the center of yard. A large boy called Tank moved into the center of the circle. Johanna did not like Tank. Just earlier in the week, she'd seen him snatch a loaf of bread from a little girl's hands. The girl had started to cry and, in response, he'd pushed her into a wall. She had no idea what her brother was doing here with Tank, but it couldn't be good.

"Before we start," Tank said to the group of boys, "I'm going to need my payment." Johanna watched the boys dig into their pockets. Each boy pulled out a coin and handed it to Tank. Johanna watched her brother hand him the coin, and wondered where the money had come from. Her father certainly would have never given it to him.

Once Tank had collected everyone's coins, he slipped them into a small burlap sack, which he threw underneath an abandoned truck.

"Alright then," Tank said, smiling to reveal his two front missing teeth, "Who wants to start?"

The boys looked nervously at one another. They were mostly like her brother, about half Tank's size and a quarter of his strength. After a few moments of deliberation, the boys seemed to have come to a conclusion, and her brother walked into the circle. Standing across from Tank, her brother appeared even more miniscule than usual. Tank stared blankly at him for a few minutes than, unceremoniously, he began pummeling him. Her brother, shocked, cried out as Tank punched him, attempting to crawl away only to be pulled back in again by Tank's monstrous arms. "Lesson #1," Tank yelled, over her brother's screams, "Never let your guard down."

Johanna, her blood curdling, couldn't sit still any longer. She crawled along the ground, strategically weaving herself through overturned cutting tables and abandoned furnaces until she found her way under the truck where Tank had hidden his burlap sack. She crawled underneath the metal body, until she discovered the sack. She pulled open the flap, examining the contents. The coins were all there, along with some pilfered cigars and a pack of matches. A plan formulated. She resealed the flap and dragged the sack alongside side her as she crawled out from beneath the truck.

Her brother was lying on the ground, blood streaming between his lips. Tank circled him slowly, directing his attention to the other boys. "Lesson #2, if your opponent is down, make sure he stays down." And, with that, Tank swiftly kicked her brother in the ribs.

Johanna pulled the matches from the sack and lit one against the box. The noise attracted the attention of several boys, who turned to see her holding the match, the orange flame shooting up.

"Look over here you big, ugly Mutt!" Johanna called out.

Tank froze mid kick and spun around to see Johanna holding the flame close to the bottom of the burlap sack.

"Stop what you're doing right now," she hissed, "Or I light it."

"Lesson over," Tank screamed at the remaining boys, who immediately scattered out of the junk yard. Tank looked down at her brother, who was squirming in pain. "Pathetic," he laughed, spitting on him, "You wouldn't make it past the Cornucopia."

He gestured towards Johanna, "My bag?"

Johanna passed it over, tossing the match in the dirt.

"I should beat you to a pulp for what you've down," Tank said to her, "but I won't, not this time." Johanna nodded, pushing past him to kneel beside her brother.

"Now see her," Tank said to her brother, pointing at Johanna, "That's who I'd be putting my money on."

…

Johanna waited by Jem's bedside until he woke up. The Healer had spent hours on him, resetting the dislocated bones and tending to the various cuts, bruises and gashes. He'd been out cold for two days. And Johanna had waited.

36 hours later her brother's eyes finally fluttered open. Johanna was dozing off in her chair, but the sound of her brother's voice woke her.

"Johanna?" he whispered.

"Hi," she replied, sitting up in the chair, "How do you feel?"

"How bad do I look?" he asked.

Johanna surveyed the bruised and bloodied face. He would never be the same again. Even now, his voice was shaky, lacking confidence. He was broken, Johanna knew, in more ways than one.

"Promise me you won't do that again," she said, "Promise me."

"And what if I do get picked for the Games?" he replied, "How will I defend myself?"

"We'll train together," she said, the thought suddenly occurring to her, "You and me, no one else."

He thought about it. "Okay," he said. "Okay, you and me."

…

She could hear the faint sound of footsteps in the hall.


	3. Chapter 3

During the Games, anticipation had been a state of momentary safety coupled with the foresight of guaranteed and imminent pain. Every sound, every smell had quickened her breath and hastened the blood flow through her veins. Fear accompanied her along the pale, rocky desert arena, as surely as thirst. And even in that moment, when she'd finally heard her name announced, when relief should have taken over, she knew that she still wasn't safe.

Better things had never been around the corner for her. Windows only opened to brick walls. Life had nothing in store for her but new, greater pain.

An optimist might imagine that the feet moving swiftly down the hall belonged to her rescuer. But Johanna had been stripped of all naivety, all optimism long ago. In its place, she'd relied on her wits. And, unfortunately for her, logic foretold a similar fate to her screaming neighbor. All she could do now wad wait and remain, as always, on her guard.

…

While Jem recovered, Joanna formulated a plan. The target, in lieu of anything better, was Tank. By tracking the number of broken noses circulating the playground every Monday morning, she'd surmised that the gathering of Tank's little group in the junkyard was a weekly activity. She'd narrowed the list of attendees down to 10 boys, 2 of which were her neighbors. The boys, Kell and Dru, crossed her front yard every Sunday just before dusk.

Small and light light-footed, Johanna started tailing the boys secretly, keeping herself several steps behind them and ducking out of view whenever one of them turned their head. Once she entered the junk yard, she slipped herself under an old rusted truck and observed the group.

None of the boys had improved at all under Tank's tutelage. Most of them still resembled her brother: small, weak and uncoordinated. Tank started each session by circling the group, stone faced. This could go on for as little as a few minutes or as long as a half an hour. The boys surrounded him, silently shaking with fear. When the attack finally came, it was swift and unexpected, the unlucky victim caught completely unaware. Within seconds, Tank had the boy pinned down in the dirt. Most of the boys knew better than to scream. Instead they groaned and gasped in pain as Tank pummeled them. If he was feeling creative, Tank would take out his axe and practice target throwing on the boy lying on the ground. Eventually, Tank would grew bored and moved on to his next victim.

Tank, though he was large, was also incredibly quick. Most of the boys barely had time to react before he landed the first punch. Even when Tank relaxed, giving the boys an opportunity to attack, he easily blocked their blows. Like Tank, Johanna quickly identified each boy's tell (a small grunt, a flicker of the arm, etc.) and patterned their attack moves (kick, punch, kick). Gradually, she noticed some group wide errors as well. For instance, many of the boys aimed for Tank's solid upper half, when really, they should be aiming for his lower half. A quick step on the foot or knee in the groin would unsteady Tank enough for the other boys to gain some sort of hold over him. It was no wonder that the boys were unsuccessful. Already at a disadvantage physically, they also were at a disadvantage strategically.

Johanna waited for the actual teaching to begin. But Tank never alerted the boys to the errors in their ways, though Johanna knew very well that he saw exactly what she saw. Instead, he kept collecting coins and beating the boys until they bled.

"Watch and learn," he repeated, as he punched a boy into the ground, "Watch and learn."

But the boys would not learn from Tank, because he refused to instruct them. And he never would, not when the current format so directly benefitted him. The whole charade, Johanna saw, was a scheme to line Tank's pockets. And in some sick, twisted way, Tank found satisfaction in circling the boys like cattle, intimidating them into submission. He enjoyed hearing the boys gasp and groan as he pinned them to the Earth. Here, in this junkyard, he was a God.

Eventually, the group widened, until it seemed like every boy in the neighborhood had joined. Johanna felt a sickness in the pit of her stomach as she watched the boys, one by one, fall to the pavement. The dejected boys, with their glassy eyes, haunted her dreams.

She wasn't sure when exactly she made the decision, but Johanna knew she had to defeat Tank. It seemed like a ridiculous idea at first, but the more Johanna thought about, the more convinced she became.

The abuse would continue until someone stood up to Tank. And none of the other boys were capable of it. It had to be her.

On a bright, sunny day in spring, shortly before the Reaping, Tank stood in front of the group, his pockets bulging with coins.

"Soon," Tank proclaimed, "one of you will be thrown into the Arena. Think about what you've learned, what you've seen. And maybe, just maybe, you'll survive."

Tank circled the group, which by now was about 75 boys. "Any volunteers for today?"

Johanna took this as her cue. Sliding herself out from beneath the rusty truck, she stood behind the group. Pushing herself between two wiry boys, she found herself directly in front of Tank.

Tank smiled, a gap tooth showing beneath his lips. "Are you lost little girl?"

Johanna didn't waste a minute, she kicked under his ankles, knocking him on his back. She hesitated, not sure what to do next. The other boys watched her quietly from the sidelines. They looked back and forth at one another, unsure of how to react. Johanna felt them waiting for her to speak, to explain herself.

She pressed her foot deeper down into Tank's chest, "HE," she said, pointing down at Tank's red and grimacing face, "isn't teaching you anything. He isn't preparing you. He isn't saving you. And each and every one of you knows that."

Suddenly, she felt her body being pulled to the ground. Tank climbed on top of her, pinning her to the ground with his knees. She felt his grip tightened around her wrist and pain shot up her arm.

"That's enough," she heard a voice call out from the crowd. Her neighbor, Dru, stepped forward. "Leave her alone."

"And she's right," Kell said, stepping into the circle. "You aren't teaching us anything. If I get picked this year, I'm just as screwed as I would've been last year."

The other boys agreed. They crowded the circle, their voices chiming in support of Kell.

Tank pushed himself off of Johanna. He started arguing against the boys, who were clearly against him.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Johanna ran. Her heart pounding, she raced home.

A few weeks later, one of Tank's long time pupils was selected as Tribute. The young boy got an axe buried in his faces within minutes of the start of the Games. The irony wasn't lost on Johanna.

Whatever small group of boys that remained under Tank's tutelage abandoned him shortly thereafter. And Tank, who was now 17, carried his axe in the forests with the other men, permanently joining the lumber trade. Johanna saw him walking through town sometimes, dirty and weary, unrecognizable in his depleted state. Even Tank, who had been the strongest amongst them, eventually got broken down by this life.

How could any of them live like this, she thought? Children living in constant fear of the Reaping. Boys desperate enough to empty their pockets to a violent bully for a false measure of safety. And if they survived the Reaping, what awaited them then? An adulthood ruled by poverty and hard, thankless work. The habitual fear of losing a child to the Reaping. Life was stacked against them from birth.

Johanna felt angry almost every moment of her life. Anger seeped through her pores, crawled over her skin. Every moment, every day of her life, she felt trapped in a prison that she couldn't escape from.

That fall, when Johanna felt her blood begin to boil, she started fiddling around with her father's axes. She thought of the precise, accurate way that Tank had thrown the axe. She practiced throwing against the trunks in her back yard until she'd fully emulated the trick.

Jem eventually started observing her throwing sessions. He was still pale and slow moving, though some of the color was returning to his cheeks. He seemed so small and defenseless, leaning on his cane for support while he watched her practice. Johanna vowed that when her brother grew stronger, she would teach him how to a throw an axe. And eventually, when her sister grew older, she would also teach Jess.

Even then, she could feel the prickly hairs on the back of her neck. She could feel the tightening of her chest and that mysterious sense of anticipation. Everything that came afterward, all of the suffering and pain, Johanna could sense it coming. And in those headstrong childhood moments of anger, she mistakenly thought that she was strong enough to prepare herself for it. Strong enough to shield her family from pain. _Silly, stupid girl._


End file.
